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DELIGHTFUL
DETOURby
Billy B. Smith |
The
Hollies said it best in the words of a song: “The road is long with many a winding
turn.” The road, after traveling it for eight years, has indeed become long, and
tedious, for me. My weekly 125-mile trek down the freeway to a small West Texas
college, where I attempt to instill the joys of literature into the uninterested
hearts of ersatz students, is more like a journey into the heart of darkness rather
than analogous to Christian’s search for the Celestial City. There is no salvific
reward for me, except disappointment, at the end of my travels. As for turns,
there aren’t many. The interstate is mostly a straight shot to my destination.
Over time, though, the road has fallen into disrepair, and for the last few years,
in at least two sections, it has narrowed down to one lane so that workmen can
concentrate on smoothing out the other one. Cars, and especially trucks of all
makes and sizes, break about every driving rule to beat one another to the bottlenecks.
Many risk their lives just to get one car length ahead. Once in the constricted
areas, antinomian drivers tailgate the car in front of them to urge law-abiding
citizens to higher speeds. The trip west, in addition to its monotony, has become
nerve-wracking. But I have discovered a delightful, distracting detour that leads
away from the chaos.
About
thirty miles before my destination raises its woebegone visage on the horizon,
State Highway 193 – the Gordon exit
– shoots off to the northwest. At this juncture sits Trolley 373, an actual old
streetcar, painted blue and white, once a restaurant that served some of the best
barbeque in the state of Texas. It has long been
defunct, but the advertisement for food still beckons the unsuspecting traveler.
The highway traverses a wooded area for about three miles before it curves west
to parallel the freeway. I have seen only two houses along this route. The copious
woods are interspersed with occasional pastures full of grazing cattle. The road
bisects an oil/gas industrial complex, but early in the morning when I am in the
vicinity, there is no activity in the yards. Right before the road curves into
Gordon, I observe the Union Pacific
Railroad off the right. |
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Gordon,
population about 600, is the first community I come to. Highway 193 runs next
to the railroad tracks into town and intersects FM 919, Main Street, at a four-way
stop sign. To the left is the downtown area, old buildings occupying both sides
of the street. One structure holds the proverbial town café, where the village
intellectuals gather to both discuss, and sometimes find answers for, the world’s
pressing issues. The café opens early, no doubt to give its denizens plenty of
time to exercise their problem-solving skills and plenty of coffee to force them
to stay awake while they do so. To the right of the intersection are the tracks,
and beyond these Highway 919 turns sharply to the left followed almost immediately
by a turn back to the right. At this second turn stands an automobile dealership
with its accompanying garage and lots. The road now heads north where it rises
gently to cross some impressive and beautiful Texas hills.
Back at the
junction Highway 193 continues west. There is a siding on the Union Pacific, and
frequently a boxcar is set out for a local merchant. The railroad has been replacing
its crossties for some time now. Stacks of them occupy the area between the road
and the tracks. In no time I’m out of Gordon.
There is a peace associated with this little town: no traffic to speak of, no
loud noises, no apparent rude drivers, none of the harrowing scenes I experience
on the interstate. Some wit might be tempted to quip that Gordon
is a place out of time, but this hypothetical snide thought sounds like a compliment
to me.
Beyond Gordon, trees
border the highway on the north and scrub brush on the south. A noticeable hill
stands up in one field, a marked contrast to the flat fields surrounding it. The
railroad is visible through the trees, and often I see a train because this important
route handles some twenty-five consists per day. I observe no houses along this
six-mile stretch. Only as I approach Mingus
do any signs of civilization appear. |
| | The
1908 smokestack in Thurber
Photo courtesy TXDoT | |
|
| Mingus
is a small village of less than 300. It was once much larger than this due to
the nearby abandoned town of Thurber.
Thurber, for
about thirty years between 1888 and 1927, was a coal mining nexus that could boast
of modern conveniences such as electric service and brick streets. In fact, a
brick factory supplied paving material for several towns in the neighborhood.
Thurber reached a population of 10,000 at its zenith, but the mines dried up,
the people moved away, and the town was totally razed in 1933. Today, few artifacts
remain of this previously booming metropolis: two restaurants – catering mostly
to tourists and hapless freeway travelers – an old train deport that was actually
moved in from Strawn, a small city
park, and a new museum built by Tarleton State University. A branch line of the
Texas and Pacific Railroad ran the four miles from Mingus
to Thurber.
As Highway 193 merges with Highway 108 at Mingus
and the road makes a sharp curve to the north, I can see the embankment of this
old spur line right before I cross the modern Union Pacific tracks. Mingus
looks almost deserted. There is a small post office at the highway intersection,
a convenience store along Highway 108 – Main Street – and an old Opera House,
a relic from the nineteenth century, now gutted but with its walls still standing
on the corner of Main and Highway 193. Hopefully, there are plans to restore this
structure. I imagine many an interesting tale comes out if its history. The principle
attraction of Mingus today seems
to be a honky tonk where the locals go to relieve their frustrations after a week’s
labor. |
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After
crossing the tracks on Highway 108, I take a quick left turn to the west, pass
an old boarded-up church, and then curve back to the right on my way to Strawn.
For about two miles the road keeps to the north. It goes through a densely wooded
section, fords a creek, and breaks out into the sunshine, where I can see several
farms and ranches with some rolling hills forming the background to this bucolic
scene. The highway gradually turns to the left, west, where it parallels both
the interstate about five miles to the south and the railroad tracks one mile
distance. I see neither from the road. The way into Strawn
is a gratifying drive. As I get closer to the town, I start to see more houses.
I pass a factory on the south which manufactures various types of construction
equipment and that must provide many country residents with job opportunities.
Farther down the road I see the rare phenomenon of a candle plant. Actually, the
alluring aroma attracts me long before the physical plant comes into view. The
candles are sold throughout the nation, and they give Strawn
the small reputation on which the chamber of commerce can brag.
I am
now at the city limits. Of the “tri-city” layout through which I have passed,
Strawn is the largest town, but still
with a population of less than 1000. It has the appearance of having been larger
at one time. I go by some beautiful old homes before I reach the central business
district. A burned-out florist shop and the post office are next to each other
on the right. I see the community center on the left, then a row of buildings,
another of which has been the victim of fire. I reach the end of Highway 108 as
it junctures with the main north-south Highway 16. All the downtown streets are
brick-paved, undoubtedly with the bricks from the old Thurber
plant. When I turn left, south, I notice an old bank building on the west side
of what is now Central Street and some shops on both sides that sell antiques
and the local-made candles. There is a vacant lot on the left where the Strawn
Theater once stood. It too burned long ago. Strawn
seems to have more than its share of fires. Highway 16 takes a ninety-degree turn
to the right, then immediately another one to the left to cross over the railroad
tracks. The roads in this part of the country have so many right angle turns that
I think of the term “orthogonal land” as an appropriate moniker for the landscape.
Off to the right, before I cross the tracks, sits the old Bankhead Hotel. It is
empty now, but its size leads me to think that in the past it was a haven for
weary travelers on their east-west journeys across America because Strawn
was on this old route before the freeway was built. |
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| At the railroad crossing
a short spur siding branches off the mainline tracks. It bends around toward the
south. I have seen at times two dormitory cars set out on this line to house railroad
workers. Mostly, though, the line stays empty. To the east of the highway stands
the local convenience store and gathering place for the “foolosophers.” A short
distance down the road stand two of the area’s popular restaurants: Mary’s and
Flossie’s. They are across the road from each other. In addition to serving authentic
Texas cuisine, they offer liquid spirits – the only places for miles that do so
– for many imbibers. Next, on the right, sits the Strawn
Market, a combination gas station-grocery store that still serves the community
after many years in business. I now head out of town to rejoin the interstate. |
| Strawn
Market - "The store was originally named Lovera's. I purchased the store
2 years ago" - Cathy Brown, June 30, 2008 |
|
It
is four miles to my personal Via Dolorosa, the last few miles to the campus.
Once there, I face four days that I can barely get through. The school represents
the way America appears to me today: student attitudes indicate that our citizens
think they deserve certain rewards or gifts in life without working for
them. Entitlement reigns supreme, even in academia. I’ve just about had it. The
road has been long to my dubious destination. But the sixteen-mile delightful
detour reminds me that there once was another America, a wistful place full of
pleasant and pensive scenery, not a jungle of concrete highways and twisted lives.
For my own sanity, I now travel it every week.
Copyright Billy
B. Smith
"They
shoe horses, don't they?"
November 17
, 2007 Guest Column
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